Because His Heart Is Pure
by Ibelieveinsam
Summary: Dean isn't happy when he is roped into a hunt for a wendigo and his bad feelings about it come to fruition when Sam, already weakened by the trials, is critically injured.
1. Chapter 1

A/N 1: It's been awhile since I've posted a new story. However, some of us over at the Winchester House took part in a fanfiction exchange and I eagerly signed up hoping to get some motivation to get a story done quickly. However, as it often does, life has other plans. This was supposed to be done end of May and well here we are in August. This story is for Jess who wanted a fic that contained a hunt in the woods involving snow. This story takes place in S8 right after the events in The Great Escapist. However, they never found Cas in the road.

A/N 2: Sorry I have not replied to reviews in such a LONG time. I have been going through some things again and it hasn't been easy. I just lost my 14 year old cat and have been trying to cope with it as best as I can. I thank each and every one of you that read, review, follow, and favorite my stories, as well as send kind pms. I appreciate it.

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It should have been an easy hunt. Find a Wendigo and kill it. Except nothing was ever easy anymore for Sam and Dean Winchester. Nothing.

They were barely out of Colorado, the leftover effects of Metatron still ringing in Sam's ears when Garth called. Apparently there was a Wendigo terrorizing some woods nearby. He had already sent in four hunters and none of them had reported back.

_Amateurs_, Dean thought automatically.

Garth said he never would have even thought of bothering them with a case or calling them at all because he knew they were "crazy" busy with the trials but he knew they were in the area and they were his last hope. He didn't have anyone else. Dean hadn't given Garth a straight answer before hanging up the phone.

"No," Dean shook his head adamantly as Sam gave him a look. "Don't even start," Dean finished, turning his face away.

He had just practically found the kid unconscious—no practically dead—on the floor of their hotel room, body so ravaged by a 107 degree fever that he thought for sure that he was too late. There was no way he would even remotely consider going on a hunt with Sam in his condition. He couldn't even think about the fear that coursed through his body when Sam called and he answered to no one on the other end. He didn't even want to remember the ten ton weight he felt on his chest as he frantically yelled "Sammy!" into the phone but got no response. Instinctively he knew Sam was in dire straits when he got no answer and he had floored it back to the hotel, dashing in the door to find Sam sprawled on the floor, phone still next to his ear. For a second, time had froze and he just stood there looking at Sam, or what he thought was the dead body of his brother. Then mercifully he heard Sam moan out the unmistakable word "Dean" before going completely unconscious again. He could tell Sam was burning with fever, the heat emanating so strongly from his body that even pressing his hand to Sam's forehead felt like it would singe his hand.

He had rushed around like crazy, filling the bath as fast as possible mumbling reassurances that he didn't believe himself as he ran for the ice too. While he waited for the ice bath to be ready, he soaked towels in the cold water to cool Sam down. Sam hadn't stirred at all which had Dean questioning if he should get Sam in the car and take him to the nearest ER or possibly even call 911. Finally once the bath was ready, he dragged Sam who was dead weight over to the tub and unceremoniously tossed Sam in. He felt bad at the rough treatment of his brother but Sam was in no condition to help himself. He anxiously bit his nails with Sam under the water waiting for him to surface. He was just about to pull Sam out, when he popped up with a gasp. Dean felt himself release a breath in that moment too.

"Dean," Sam said, interrupting his thoughts.

It was the eyes again, boring into him. Eyes that held the weight of the world yet still enough room to carry guilt over anyone left behind.

_Damn it!_ Dean thought. Sometimes he hated having a brother with a bleeding heart that he wore right on his sleeve. Yet he loved him more than anything for it too.

"Sam, we can't," Dean protested. "You're in no condition right now."

"Well I'm sure those hunters aren't in any condition either," Sam said, reasonably.

_Damn him for having such witty comebacks too_, Dean thought with a mixture of chagrin and self satisfaction because he knew the kid had learned it from him.

After arguing back and forth with Dean doing most of the arguing since Sam was really too weak to refute much of it, Dean had reluctantly agreed to go find the Wendigo. Sam might have been weak but he could still wear him down though which is why Dean agreed to the hunt. However, he was never going to agree to Sam coming along. However, he conveniently left that part out, waiting until they were at their destination.

Sam dutifully used his phone to search up stories about missing hikers while he still had service. Then Dean revealed the conditions of the hunt. The strict rule was that Sam was not to leave the car. The deal was that Sam would sit in the Impala with a warm blanket tucked around him and the heat cranked up. Sam had refused at first, well practically stamped his foot like a stubborn mule over the prospect of leaving his brother alone out in the woods.

"Sam, you'll only slow me down," Dean told Sam bluntly.

Sam looked at him with a mix of sadness and realization that it was true. Deep down he knew he was becoming more of a liability than anything else. Dean had given Sam the instructions that if he didn't return in at least two hours, he was to call the Ranger's station that they were parked close to and then Garth if he even had any reinforcements left at all that is. Sam reluctantly agreed, claiming he was feeling much better since they were out of Metatron's direct vicinity but Dean was not to be swayed. Sam was staying put and that was that.

Dean checked the coordinates that Garth had sent him and used the information that Sam had obtained to glean where he should be looking. He made his way up a rocky gravel path. It was all uphill and he couldn't help but feel that the higher he climbed, the colder it was. He pulled his flimsy jacket tighter around him, when he felt something wet tickle his face.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said aloud. It was snowing. It might have been the end of April, practically May, but thick wet flakes were beginning to fall. He sloshed through puddles of melted snow due to the back and forth weather of Colorado, undecided if it was spring or still winter. Some of the puddles were so deep, his feet and ankles froze. He slid over icy pathways, the snow starting to accumulate slightly, the further he climbed. He came across a small stream and carefully navigated over some rocks, unsure of its depth. He hoped Sam was okay back in the car. He felt bad that he had told Sam a tiny white lie about the ranger station. He knew the thing was abandoned but he couldn't risk Sam coming with him.

Then he smelled it, a slight tang in the air, that was unmistakably blood. He knew he was getting close, as he saw the remnants of the camp. It looked to him like they had been surprised by a sneak attack. He couldn't say he felt a lot of sympathy for the men since they'd been so stupid. However, the hunting pool was getting smaller these days. It's not like they could put an ad online: "Hunters Wanted. Chance of Death 99%."

Dean suspected maybe the Wendigo had used its powers to deceive and imitated the voices of the other hunters to separate them and trap them. It was a typical rookie mistake.

"Help!" He heard it faintly in the distance as he examined a tree branch and it snapped him out of his reverie. He instantly grabbed his flame thrower, prepared for anything. He knew it could be an actual hunter in distress or a trap. He wasn't trying to make the same mistake the other hunters had most likely made.

Dean followed the sound with trepidation and caution. Then he spotted the glint of some ice on what looked like a cavern.

Must be his lair, he deduced. He made his way over to it, looking in all directions since he knew the Wendigo was most likely close by. He peered in and all he saw was what could only be referred to as "leftovers." There were some clothes strewn about, blood, and bones. He didn't see any sign of anyone living. He was turning around to inspect the area for any survivors, anyone that could be hiding nearby, when he felt something smash and tear into him, knocking him to the ground.

Damn, he couldn't believe the thing had gotten the drop on him.

Sam must be wearing off on me, Dean mused. He actually thought there might be someone living in need of help. He'd let his guard down.

He slowly made his way to his feet, checking for injuries. He saw his sleeve had been tattered and along with it his arm. Slash marks made their way from his shoulder to his forearm. He wasn't standing very long when he was hit again. As he fell to the ground, he only wished Sam had gotten nervous and was trying to call in reinforcements. A part of him wished Sam wasn't so sick and was with him right now. He needed backup and he needed it now.

ooooo

Sam sat in the car, anxiously biting his lip. His head pounded loudly as a result of the fever he was still running. He felt a cough about to hit and he did his best to stifle it so it wouldn't jar his painful head and chest. However it was no use as the cough erupted from his lips. He coughed long and hard, blood spraying from his lips and splattering the dash.

He used his sleeve to clean it off once he could catch his breath. He didn't want Dean to be pissed at him for damaging "his baby." He shivered slightly as he saw flakes suddenly striking the windshield.

"Dean where are you?" He asked audibly.

He knew it hadn't been long but he was worried. He wasn't lying when he told Dean he was the best hunter around. He knew it, but Dean should not be alone out there on his own. He should be out there having Dean's back. Lately all he did was let Dean down. He didn't know why he even agreed to this stupid plan at all. Yes, he wanted to save those hunters but he didn't want to be left behind in the car while Dean had to go it alone. After all, the last time they hunted a Wendigo, Dean had ended up captured. If something happened to Dean, it would be no one's fault but his own. This was all his idea and he was the burden, unable to provide backup.

Gingerly, he stepped out of the car. He listened for any sound in the distance. Then he could have sworn he heard it.

"Sam!"

He knew his mind might be playing tricks on him, and Wendigos could be deceptive as well, but he had a bad feeling and he wasn't taking any chances, not with his brother, not ever.

He followed the route Dean would have taken, a gravel path as the cold flakes hit his skin. For a moment it was soothing against the heat of his skin but the chill set in and contributed to the pounding in his head. Everything ached as he made the arduous climb. He felt as if the air got heavier making it hard for him to breathe as he went up in altitude. He wished Dean had left some peanut M&Ms behind this time so he could find him. He passed a small stream, having to navigate over rocks to make his way across. He nearly lost his footing a couple times due to his shaky legs. Luckily he made his way across and as he sloshed through deep puddles, he began to see footprints, unmistakably Dean's.

He let out a breathy "thank-you" to whoever was listening so he could now track and hopefully find his brother. He looked at his phone but as he suspected it was useless up here, no signal.

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, cursing himself that he couldn't go faster. He wheezed in and out, tasting coppery blood in the back of his throat.

Then he knew he was no longer tasting it but smelling it as well. There was a faint smell of blood in the air.

"Dean!" He yelled. His voice was hoarse, not even perceptible to someone a good distance away. He walked further, suddenly seeing droplets on the ground. Red droplets. He knew they were fresh, unlikely to be from the hunters who most likely had unfortunately met their demise. His stomach dropped painfully as air was sucked from his already abused lungs. The blood had to be from Dean. Was he too late?

He followed the droplets further, thankful that he wasn't being led to a larger pool of blood. Suddenly he sensed movement in the trees. He looked up to see a blur above him and he knew he probably had made himself a sitting duck because he didn't have the stealth of a Wendigo right now, probably not even that of a slug.

"Dean!" He called again, his voice a weak mewl. He didn't care if he was drawing the creature closer to him, better that way, than closer to Dean if he had somehow escaped and was hiding out injured.

Sam walked further along into a thick row of pine trees, covered in the fresh and older snow. Then he saw him.

It was Dean, painfully rising from the ground, getting up slowly. Then just ahead of him, Sam could see the blur of the Wendigo, ready to take charge at Dean from behind. Sam ran with all the strength his weak legs and diminished lung capacity could muster because he knew Dean was just getting his bearings and didn't see the creature looming behind him. He also didn't trust his own voice to get Dean's attention. He found a tree very close to the Wendigo where he could be right above it. He began climbing, finding purchase in the limbs, climbing halfway to the top, forgetting all about his limitations as his sole focus was on Dean. The Wendigo didn't notice him, his gaze fixed on the smell of his prey, Dean.

The tree was several feet behind Dean, but he hoped it would be enough. He was halfway to the top of the 50 foot tree when he gave the branches a firm shake as the creature snuck behind Dean.

"Hey!" Sam yelled as the grisly looking creature looked up at him as snow began to cover its body.

More snow began to fall on the creature with each shake of the branch and finally it got Dean's attention. Now covered in snow and slowed down, Dean saw it perfectly, turned around, ran up, and pulled out his flamethrower. However, now that the trees were being released from the coverage of white fluff, Sam could sense the branches were snapping and with the adrenaline rush gone now, he knew he was going to fall too.

As the creature went up in a ball of fire, Sam started falling, striking branches and snapping them as he fell. He yelped in pain, only hoping that the snow cover underneath would provide a soft landing surface. He saw white snow rising up faster to meet him and once he hit the ground, he blissfully knew no more.

ooooo

Dean was just getting his wits about him when he could feel the creature practically breathing down his neck. He expected to feel claws rip into him, but instead he sensed the creature stop as he heard a weak voice call out. He thought for sure he must be dreaming because the voice sounded a heck of a lot like Sam and he doubted Sam would be anywhere in the vicinity, that he even had the volition to make it here, but yet he turned to see his little brother, precariously perched in a tree, shaking snow on the Wendigo, distracting him enough so he could finish the job. He was thinking of how badly he was going to tear into Sam for even being there at all when he saw the branches giving way. He watched in horror as Sam dropped out of sight. He ran over as fast as he could to the still form of his brother, who was lying on his side covered in tree debris, a mixture of cuts and scrapes dotting his face.

"Sam? Sam," he prodded.

He came to slowly, feeling a gentle shake on his shoulders.

It was Dean with a relieved expression on his face.

"Did you think I was crying out for help like a little bitch? Thought you were smarter than that? Didn't I tell you to stay put?" Dean was so relieved just to see Sam's eyes open and alert that he would yell at him later.

"Saved your ass didn't I?" Sam said, with a pained grin.

"How bad is the damage?" Dean asked becoming serious. "Can you get up?"

"I think so." He didn't think he was badly injured. The fall on his head had renewed the pounding from the fever. He also had an ache deep in his chest, like the wind had been knocked out of him. However, this was something he was getting used to.

Slowly he tried to rise, but then he gasped out in pain, nearly dropping to his knees.

"Sam? Sammy? What is it?"

Sam's face blanched of color and his hand instinctively flew up to his chest.

Dean looked down at Sam's chest and felt his knees tremble in fear. There was a large branch, at least four inches in length, slightly thick in diameter, protruding from the right side of Sam's chest. Apparently it had impaled him on the way down as he fell from the tree. Sam had been so covered in twigs in branches that Dean failed to notice that Sam wasn't just hurt, he was in imminent danger of death.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry for the delay on this update. Right now my other cat Deanie (can you guess who she is named after?) is suffering from an ear infection so unfortunately there has been more stress in my life. Thank-you for all the kind reviews and pms, and also to those who followed or favorited. I will respond to reviews and pms soon. I promise.

A/N 2: This chapter contains words from the poem "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. I hope you enjoy this chapter and you come back for the conclusion.

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"Let me see!" Dean said, trying to compose himself. Sam weakly grabbed at the branch, suddenly delirious, trying to pull it out. Dean grabbed his hands and sat Sam back down on the ground to examine the wound. Blood was starting to blossom around the branch but not a significant amount which meant leaving the branch in place was the best option. He looked at Sam's back and could not find an exit wound so it hadn't pierced him all the way through. However, he didn't know how deep it was embedded.

Sam was quiet through Dean's ministrations and Dean realized Sam had passed out.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, tapping him on the cheek. He knew Sam was probably going into shock and they still had to hike out of there. He also wasn't feeling fit as a fiddle himself with his own blood loss. Sam gave him a dazed look as he came to once again.

"Don't feel so good," Sam murmured.

"That's not surprising, considering you have a tree sticking out of your chest," Dean deadpanned.

Suddenly Sam bent over, retching and dry heaving. Dean grabbed him, terrified Sam would jostle the branch and die instantly.

Blood trickled down Sam's lips. Dean didn't know if it was from his injury or the trials. He couldn't imagine that Sam's body could take anymore abuse with what he'd been through recently.

"You good?" Dean asked, when Sam finally stopped.

Sam nodded, unable to speak. Dean carefully helped Sam to his feet, a pained expression crossing both their faces.

"You're hurt Dean," Sam said, when Dean cringed from the pain of draping Sam's arm over his shoulder. "What about the hunters?" Sam continued. "My fault."

"Shut up Sam," Dean spat, matter of factly. Right now he didn't give a rat's ass about them or Sam's guilt trip. His only concern was getting them out of this mess.

They walked painstakingly through the wet snow. Dean could hear Sam's labored breathing in his ear. Dean followed their footprints back, thankful that the snow hadn't accumulated too much and covered the tracks so that he could remember the way back.

After what seemed like hours, Dean finally had to admit to himself that he needed a break. His feet were getting numb. He stopped by the stream from earlier preparing for how he would get the two of them across this time. He wasn't sure of its depth. He knew snow had melted in the area probably recently so it could be deeper than usual or potentially still just a fairly shallow stream. He wondered how Sam had crossed it before and how he had even made it this far at all.

Probably the same way he keeps going with these trials, Dean thought ruefully. Dean found a nearby tree to prop Sam up on and he took a moment to let himself rest. The scratches across his shoulder pulled and ached and he could see he had lost more blood himself. He imagined that he looked like a wreck but it couldn't be anywhere near as bad as Sam looked. The kid's face was a ghastly white, his breath coming in short, fast gasps.

He was just about to tell Sam they should get going when he saw Sam start to pitch forward. Sam's eyes rolled up in his head and he fell face first into the stream.

No, Dean thought in horror.

If Sam had fallen on that thing than it might be too late. Thankfully only Sam's face and upper body had fallen in the water. He heaved Sam up who was now soaking wet from the chest up and freezing. It was hard to believe he was so cold, considering just earlier that day, he was practically an inferno. It was lucky that Sam had fallen in the stream though or else the branch would have most likely pierced something vital. The depth of the water had prevented that from happening. Dean could see that the branch had shifted maybe slightly as blood was leaking more from the wound. Sam let out a strangled gurgle and blood bubbled again from his lips. He knew they were running out of time. He yanked Sam up, not caring anymore about what damage he was causing. Damaged Sammy, was better than dead Sammy.

He directed Sam over the rocks, kicking Sam's legs with his own to get them to move and find procurement on the rocks. Just because where Sam had fallen in didn't seem that deep didn't mean the rest of it wasn't. There was no way he was risking Sam going under.

"Hey Sam?" Dean said, thinking of a way to keep Sam awake and moving. "Remember that poetry recitation contest?"

"When…you…were a finalist?" Sam rasped out.

"Yeah that's the one. We were in town for that poltergeist hunt, remember? Dad broke a couple of ribs so we were in school for a good month that time."

Sam just nodded, looking like talking was too much of an effort.

"Well I was a junior and you were what in 8th grade?"

"Seventh," Sam whispered.

"Good you're more with it then I thought," Dean said, cheered that Sam remembered. "Remember how I didn't even want to participate but it was part of my grade and you drove me nuts about memorizing the poem?"

Sam rolled his eyes at him, huffing out a sigh as they continued to plod along, now safely past the stream.

"Well this reminds me of the poem."

Sam looked at him, his eyes filled with confusion.

"Stopping…By…Woods," Sam began.

"On a Snowy Evening," Dean finished for him. "I still remember it," Dean said, as they began their descent down the path. "Whose woods these are I think I know," Dean began the poem. Then he glanced at Sam for a response.

"His…house is in…the village…though," Sam continued.

The words were spoken haltingly with intense effort but this is what Dean needed. He needed Sam to keep talking to keep going. He could see him fading right before his eyes.

"He will not see me stopping here," Dean went on.

"To…watch…his woods fill up…with snow," Sam finished, breathlessly.

"You remember!" Dean exclaimed.

They kept going back and forth with the lines, Sam's voice getting softer as they went.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep," Dean continued as they neared the end of the poem and the end of their journey back to the car.

Sam was silent this time, his head drooping on to Dean's shoulder.

"Come on Sammy. You don't want to be upstaged by your brother, do you?"

"But…I have…promises…to keep," Sam breathlessly sounded out.

"That a boy Sammy!" Dean congratulated him. "And miles to go before I sleep," Dean continued.

He looked to Sam again for the last line, but he knew Sam was done. His breaths were coming out as a slight whistle now.

"And miles to go before I sleep," Dean finished for the both of them. His brother did have miles to go and he wasn't going to let him quit now.

He dragged Sam the rest of the way. By the end, he wasn't even sure Sam was moving his feet at all. He was barely conscious.

"You with me?" Dean asked him every few moments just to ensure Sam was breathing. Sam would just grunt in response.

Once they reached the car, Dean opened the door as fast as he could, placing his precious burden, his brother inside. He ran to the trunk, grabbing a towel and a blanket. He carefully wrapped the towel around the branch, pressing it to the wound to staunch the flow of blood. He covered Sam with the blanket in an attempt to warm him. Sam's breaths were coming in pained gasps now, a slightly bluish tinge to his lips, his eyes half lidded.

Dean hopped into the driver side praying it wouldn't take his classic car too long to get going. He cranked the heat to try to warm the half soaked Sam and his own frozen toes. He knew they probably both had the beginnings of frostbite on their feet. However, despite being still somewhat drenched, he could swear as soon as Sam dried and warmed ever so slightly, he was starting to feel heat coming from his brother, the fever taking hold again.

He turned on the windshield wipers to get rid of the thin crust of snow on the windshield. Dean only wished he hadn't been lying before about the abandoned ranger station because maybe they could have done something to help Sam, to keep him alive until he could get him to the hospital.

"Am…I…a…bad…person?" Sam huffed out, suddenly lucid for a mere moment again.

Dean looked at him confusedly, noting that Sam had again slipped into unconsciousness before he could answer him.

He put his hand against Sam's neck, satisfied with the unsteady beat thrumming against his fingers. He gunned the engine, as each turn of the wheel pulled at the wounds in his injured shoulder. He kept glancing over at Sam, trying to keep his eyes on the road, but he was distracted at how slumped over Sam was, gurgling sounds escaping his lips. Stopping to check Sam, however, wasn't even an option at this point. The sooner he was under medical care the better.

He remembered seeing an emergency room just outside of town when he and Sam had arrived because he half expected to need to take Sam to it with how extremely ill he seemed.

Finally he found it, pulling up to the front doors and running out of the car.

"My brother's outside! He needs help!" He shouted to a haggard looking receptionist, when he ran into the hospital. Finally the relatively quiet hospital sprang to life as a stretcher and a team of medical professionals rushed outside.

Carefully they opened the door to the car as Sam nearly fell out of it as he was slumped against the window.

"We have an impalement here," one of the doctors shouted. "His pulse is thready and respirations are practically nonexistent."

Carefully Sam was lifted out of the car and Dean noted with alarm how limp Sam was, how he flopped like a ragdoll. They placed him on a stretcher, began bagging him, and rushed him into the ER.

Dean tried to follow behind but suddenly he felt his own knees start to buckle. He felt firm hands grip him as he himself was placed on a stretcher. He cursed himself for his own weakness. He didn't need to be admitted to a hospital. He needed to be there for Sam.

He was wheeled into an adjoining room, swinging doors the only thing separating him from his brother. He could see that Sam was being worked on next door. He turned his head to the side to look through the windows on the door. He could see Sam, so pale under the glaring fluorescent lights, his clothes being cut off, the bruises that were starting to form all over him.

"Dean!" Sam yelped, suddenly jarring awake as if he could sense his brother was close but couldn't quite reach him. Sam struggled weakly, seemingly disoriented, his hand outstretched in the direction of his brother as he went limp once again. Dean began to struggle himself to get up off the stretcher to see his brother.

Alarms were sounding in Sam's room and frantic words were being yelled out.

"Get me X ray stat! We need to see how much damage this thing did. The kid's crashing!" He watched as Sam's head was tilted back, a tube slid down his throat. "Get me plasma! He's hypovolemic and bottoming out." Dean barely registered that he was being held back from getting up.

"Sir, sir," a voice said to him, trying to hold him down, to pull his eyes away, pull his face back. "They are doing what they can for him. Let's worry about you right now. Can you tell me your name?"

"It's Dean," he answered curtly, as a penlight was shined in his eyes.

"Look I'm fine," Dean said as he again tried to get up, batting the doctor's hand away.

"You have four slashes down your shoulder and arm that tell me otherwise," the doctor responded in kind. "Your feet are also showing signs of some frostbite."

Dean ignored him.

"What's your friend's name?"

"It's Sam. He's not my friend. He's my brother." He wasn't sure he had answered correctly though. He couldn't really define Sam. He was his brother, yes, in the simplest terms, but yet he was so much more. Friend, confidante, supporter protector. Reason he breathed and lived.

"How did you and your brother get hurt like this?" The doctor asked.

"Camping trip," Dean answered automatically. "Got attacked by a cougar. Sam climbed a tree to get the drop on it and then he fell." It was almost the truth.

"Sounds like you two work like a well-oiled machine."

"Yeah we do." It was true.

Dean could hear more frantic beeping which diverted his attention again.

"These don't look too deep. You did lose some blood however, so we want to get you on an IV and stitch you up. We want to get your feet warmed up too and get you a tetanus shot. We might have to consider the animal was rabid too. What happened to it?"

"Got away," Dean lied, still straining to see Sam. He could see now that they were trying to saw part of the branch down to remove it.

"Then you might need a series of rabies shots."

Dean ignored him.

The doctor looked at him in exasperation, finally disappearing through the swinging doors of Sam's room. Then Dean heard more commotion, more loud beeping, and saw only a blur as Sam was whisked away.

His doctor spoke in hushed tones with Sam's but he couldn't take his eyes off the doctor whose rubber gloves were slick with Sam's blood. Finally, he made his way back to Dean.

"Listen the branch was sitting on an artery and they thought they could remove it without causing damage. However, the branch must have nicked the artery so when they took it out, Sam started to hemorrhage.

"What?" Dean asked angrily. What kind of idiots do you have working here?"

"They are taking Sam up to surgery to repair the artery," the doctor continued, ignoring his tirade. "We'll know more in a couple of hours."

"Listen stitch me up now because I'm not staying here any longer than I have to," Dean said, aggressively, not caring about his tone.

Fifty stitches later, 30 inside, and 20 out, arm fixed in a sling, Dean made his way to the waiting room to see if there was information on Sam. He had reluctantly agreed to the IV while they stitched him up and only stayed under the blanket long enough to warm his toes. The doctor said there was only slight frostbite so if he wasn't in any danger of losing his toes, he wasn't too concerned. He blathered on again about rabies shots but Dean knew that unless they had rabies shots for Wendigos, it wasn't necessary.

Dean went over to the front desk, now occupied by someone new after a change in shift. However, no one would give him any information. He felt pain set into his arm but he had refused any pain medication because he wanted to be lucid for Sam.

After two and half hours, his back was numb from the hard plastic chair, his shoulder pulsating painfully, but that couldn't compare to the anger that was threatening to boil over if he didn't hear something soon. He didn't know what was taking so long and he was frightened to think of what damage to Sam's body they would find from the trials. He was just about to get up and yell at the first person he saw when a doctor emerged from behind the doors. She immediately sought him out, obviously familiar with their case.

"How is he?" Dean asked immediately, cutting to the chase.

Dean saw a look cross her face as if she wasn't sure how to start.

"Why don't we have a seat?" She suggested.

Dean didn't like this one bit as he sat back down in the unforgiving chair.

"I'm Dr. Shay," She said, extending a hand. "Dr. Moriati told me about you."

"Who?" Dean asked, shaking her hand.

"Your doctor," She said.

Dean hadn't bothered to get his name.

"I'm not surprised you didn't catch his name. He said you were pretty concerned about your brother."

"I am," Dean said, getting impatient.

"Well it's miraculous how little damage the branch caused. If it had been a centimeter to the right, it would have—"

"Look, I get the sense you are prolonging the inevitable here. You're trying to tell me how lucky my brother is, but why do I feel like there is more to this?"

"Well there have been complications."

"Complications?"

"Sam suffered significant blood loss. We lost him for a few minutes."

Dean felt his head start to swim. The words sounded foreign to him. Lost him? He didn't quite want to grasp the ramifications of that, that she meant Sam's heart had stopped because losing Sam was never an option, never.

"But you just said the branch didn't do that much damage?"

"It didn't. It didn't strike any organs, thankfully. No major arteries. It did nick one which is why when we removed it, Sam started to bleed. However, he lost nearly 60% of his blood volume."

"Come again?" Dean questioned her. When he nicked himself shaving, it was a small cut. Losing all that blood sounded like it had eviscerated the artery.

"Normally Sam probably would be recovering. He didn't lose that much blood from being impaled, but there are problems due to his anemia. Were you aware Sam was so anemic?" The doctor asked, sensing his confusion.

"Anemic?" Dean asked.

"Yes, we've run tests and it's the only explanation for the blood loss. Was Sam in an accident before?"

"No," Dean shook his head quietly. It was all he could muster. He knew what she was driving at. It was the trials, spitting up blood. It's why Sam was so anemic.

"Right now he has signs of Hemolytic anemia such as petechial hemorrhaging. He has several splotches on his skin that could be the result of the fall or a previous injury. This is consistent with anemia, bruising easily. He appears to have hemorrhaged previously in other areas, however, particularly the lungs. Did you ever see your brother coughing up blood?"

He thought of lying but either way, he knew he was going to look bad.

"Actually yes, He hasn't been feeling too good lately. We were going to get him checked out soon but…"Dean dropped off, chewing his lip.

The doctor eyeballed him carefully but continued.

"Well it appears he has a low grade infection in his lungs too and it's affecting his breathing. That might account for the damage to his lungs."

"The kid is really stubborn," Dean responded. "He had his heart set on this camping trip and wouldn't go to the ER," Dean said, suddenly feeling the need to make excuses.

"Well that's not important right now. What's important is sustaining Sam's life."

"But how is he?" Dean asked. The doctor was throwing out all this information but she never told him what he needed to hear.

"His condition is critical," she said.

And that was just what he didn't want to hear. He wanted to hear they were patching the kid up, giving him some blood, and he'd be fine.

"Right now we are trying to restore his blood volume, iron, and treat him with antibiotics to contain the infection and help with the anemia. We also treated him for some mild hypothermia and frostbite. However, now that he is warmed up, he is running a fever and his body is showing signs of shutting down."

"Shutting down?"

"It's not uncommon when the body is denied blood to function properly. I'm sure your brother has been lightheaded and nauseous, running a fever. He isn't breathing on his own. Frankly his body is weak. I'm not saying you are your brother's keeper but he should not have went so long without medical treatment."

No he was his brother's keeper. He was an idiot not to take Sam to the hospital in the first place.

"Can I see him," Dean asked.

"Yes, once he is out of recovery, they'll move him to the ICU."

Dean dropped his head and nodded.

_I should be taking you to the ER.  
They can't do anything for me._

He thought of their conversation from before. Why had he even listened to Sam? He should have called an ambulance when he found him on the hotel room floor unconscious like that. He still wasn't certain if the doctors could heal him but they maybe could have at least prevented him from getting any worse, given him something to make him feel better.

ooooo

After another hour of waiting with Dean going over the various scenarios in his head on what he could have done differently, he was directed to Sam's room.

He entered Sam's room tentatively, nervous about just how bad Sam would look. He wasn't wrong in his assumption. Sam looked terrible. His face was practically alabaster, whiter than the sheets. His chest moved up and down mechanically with the respirator. IV bags hung above Sam, one containing blood. Even though Sam was being provided with the oxygen he so desperately needed, his lips still retained the bluish tinge. The splotches the doctor discussed with him stood out on his face and arms, appearing like little broken blood vessels all over his skin. Coupled with the scratches on his face, and the red rimming around his eyes, he hardly looked like Sam at all.

He walked over to Sam's bed, taking it in. Sam's appearance frightened him but this was still his pain in the ass little brother and he needed to stay strong for him. He reached out a hand, placing it on top of Sam's.

"You're still warm dude," Dean said, unsure of what to say.

He pulled up a chair and sat beside Sam, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. He sat staring at his brother in the silence. He should have been the one to do the trials. He should be the one in the hospital bed if anything, not Sam. He had failed, himself and his brother.

ooooo

Two days went by with Dean keeping his vigil. Sam hadn't stirred at all. He watched Sam's doctor and nurses come in and out. They'd changed the bandage on his chest and Dean had nearly gasped aloud when he saw the spectacular array of colors covering Sam's body. He couldn't be sure if those bruises were all from the fall or from previous scuffles. Sometimes he'd ask the staff how Sam was but he'd grown accustomed to the answers they all gave: "Same" or "Holding his own."

He looked up as Sam's door swung open again and a nurse walked in. She smiled at him as she walked over to Sam. She did the usual routine. She took his temperature, peered at the monitors and wrote down some information in Sam's chart. However, then she seemed to pause for a moment, intently staring at Sam's face. She lifted up his eyelids and inspected Sam's eyes.

Dean felt his hackles go up, wondering just what was going on.

He didn't get a chance to ask her as she left the room. However, she returned moments later with Sam's doctor, Dr. Shay.

Dr. Shay performed the same examination on Sam, as Dean sat there, afraid to even ask.

"Is something wrong?" He asked finally. He knew there was so he didn't even know why he bothered.

"We need to take some blood from Sam and run some tests."

"That's not answering my question," Dean stated firmly. "Is he getting any better?"

"I wish I could tell you differently," she began. "However, unfortunately it looks like Sam is getting worse."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Well here it is the conclusion to the story. I really hope it meets expectations especially for Jess (Spoilerwolf) who this story is for. I had this story mapped out a certain way, envisioning the ending, and how it would wrap up. However, I'm not sure the final product is what I expected or that I got the story to the level I wanted it to be. I'm going through some hard times so my mind hasn't been firing on all cylinders lately as I've been distracted so that has definitely played a role. Please forgive any and all mistakes as I wouldn't doubt that there are some. Also, please forgive any errors in medical facts as well. This story contains verses from the poem "Sir Galahad" by Tennyson and the title is also taken from a line from the poem. I hope you take the time to read and review. See you next story :)

* * *

"Worse?" Dean asked. "What do you mean?"

"Look at Sam's face," she instructed him.

Dean didn't get it. He 'd been doing that for the last couple of days, staring at Sam's face, waiting for a flutter of his eyelids, anything. However, he did as she told him and this time he saw something different.

He wasn't sure if it was the lighting in the room but there was something off about Sam's skin color.

"You see it?" She asked, noticing that Dean was catching on. "It's yellow jaundice. Unfortunately it means that Sam's liver is most likely failing."

She walked over to Sam's face and pulled down his lower eyelid and Dean could see the whites of Sam's eyes were yellow too.

"Well how do we fix it?" Dean asked.

"I'm sorry I can't give you more but we have to get this bloodwork done before we can take a plan of action."

Dean leaned over the railing of Sam's bed, unable to take his eyes off of Sam's face, how yellow it really was. How hadn't he noticed it before?

He watched as vials of Sam's blood were taken, feeling helpless at the idea of his brother losing anymore. The nurse hurriedly walked out of the room once she was done and Dean sat back down, stricken at what this could all mean.

He kept looking at Sam's face, hoping somehow it would change in color, revert to the rosy glow it once held, that this would all magically go away. He knew it was fantasy but he didn't have much hope left.

He eventually sat back down, his legs feeling wobbly again. Finally the doctor returned to speak with him.

"The tests from the other day have come back and we believe what Sam has is Idiopathic Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia. It's a condition where the cells in the body mistakenly destroy red blood cells and this causes the anemia. We're not sure what causes it. Sometimes it's spontaneous. "

Dean took it in. Was this why Cas had said he couldn't heal Sam because he was unable to heal Sam's damaged cells? Was this what he meant about all that mumbo jumbo about subatomic levels? He wasn't sure, but he knew Sam's body attacking itself had to do with the trials.

"The severe anemia is now causing Sam's liver to fail," the doctor continued. "His other organs are showing signs of failure as well."

Dean didn't know how to respond to it. It sounded like there wasn't much hope for his brother at all.

"We are going to do what we can to try to reverse it, by starting Sam on some steroid treatment, but—"

"You don't know how he'll respond and he might die," Dean concluded for her.

"Unfortunately that's correct," she said. She exited the room quietly but it wasn't long before a nurse came in to place another IV bag above Sam's head. She also exited quickly as if she and the doctor could sense that he didn't want to be bothered.

Dean shrugged out of his sling, grimacing in response. He placed his head in his hands, his mind swimming dizzily.

_Am I a bad person?_

It was like a punch to the gut. Sam's words. Only it wasn't the words Sam had spoken to him before in the car. It was the words of a five year old Sam asking his brother for reassurance.

How could he have forgotten that? How could he have forgotten the Classics Illustrated Comic Books? They had belonged to their dad, some relics from his childhood. He did remember reading to Sam about that stupid knight. He always wanted to hear about Sir Galahad even though Dean had grown sick of the same old story. He also didn't get why Sam had asked him that question over and over either.

However, now he understood better than ever.

Suddenly he couldn't sit any longer. He had to get up and do something, find a way to heal Sam in his own way. His words were always healing to his brother before.

_No Sam. You aren't a bad person. You're annoying, yes and your goody, goody act gets on my nerves but you're a good person. Now go to sleep please._

It was the same routine whenever John was out of town. It was the only way Sam could get to sleep.

He got up and exited Sam's room, heading to the front desk of the ICU.

"You have a library around here?"

The woman at the desk directed him up two floors to the hospital library. He didn't know what he would find there except for maybe medical books with a bunch of jargon but he had to try. He walked purposefully in that direction.

There was a woman at the front desk of the library, enthralled in a book called _The Hunger Games_ and Dean wondered if it was about the latest dieting trends.

"Can I help you?" She asked, looking up.

"I need help finding some comics," Dean said.

"The gift shop is downstairs," She said, returning to her book.

"No it's old, vintage. It's called Classics Illustrated Comic Books."

"Really?" She seemed to perk up. "Are you a collector?" Suddenly he couldn't help but think of Charlie.

"No, but my brother, he's a patient and he loved those stories when he was a kid."

"We definitely don't have that here, sorry," she said. "Can I help you find something else?"

"No, I was really hoping to find those comics. My brother loved, well loves," he began, catching and berating himself for ever referring to Sam in the past tense. "He loves the Knights of the Round Table."

"King Arthur and Galahad?" She said, perkily again.

"Yeah, especially Galahad."

"Who can blame him? He was an amazing knight, pure, and willing to sacrifice it all."

Dean couldn't help but feel that sounded familiar.

"Well I might be able to give you something. Come with me," She said, smiling. She suddenly had a spring in her step, as if she loved the idea of being able to help someone find real literature instead of the usual medical texts.

"She directed him over to a shelf containing several anthologies. She pulled one out that said something about Complete Works of Tennyson on the side.

"Tennyson?" Dean questioned.

"Yes, someone donated this to the hospital, lucky for you. There is an amazing poem in here about Sir Galahad. Ah here it is," she said, flipping to the back. She pointed at a poem entitled _Sir Galahad_ that was several stanzas long. Dean couldn't help but glance at the portrait of Galahad, kneeling, so noble and probably someone Sam wanted to emulate. _Someone Sam did emulate._ "It's the best I can do," She said. "I can Xerox it for you."

"That would be awesome. Thanks," Dean said, sincerely. He couldn't help but smile. The way she geeked out made him think of Sam too. It was like the kid got high off the smell of books. She'd probably have a huge crush on him too if she met him.

She returned with the pages, handing them to Dean.

"I hope your brother feels better soon," She said, sitting back down and flipping open her book.

"Yeah me too," He said. "Thanks again."

Dean returned to his vigil at Sam's bedside, the papers firmly clutched in his hands. He scanned the pages before him and realized that this reminded him of his worst nightmare from high school, a bunch of old English thrown on to paper. However, he licked his lips and began to read.

"My good blade carves the casques of men,  
My tough lance thrusteth sure,  
My strength is as the strength of ten,  
Because my heart is pure" Dean recited.

He had to stop for a moment at those words because it rang far too true to him. He didn't know why Sam thought the trials were purifying him. He didn't need purification. Demon blood or not, Sam was the purest person he knew. He continued reading, the words coming out faster, almost like a chant, a rallying cry for his brother.

"How sweet are looks that ladies bend  
On whom their favours fall!  
For them I battle till the end,  
To save from shame and thrall:  
But all my heart is drawn above,  
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:  
I never felt the kiss of love,  
Nor maiden's hand in mine."

Dean stopped again, this time in reflection. Sam had never known love, well he had but it was always stolen from him. He never knew normal and it saddened him to think that Sam was accepting this fact. He'd lost Jess and then given up Amelia and chosen him, putting his brother and the lives of other people first.

Dean continued reading the poem, deciphering the words in his head. He was bombarded by memories of Sam as a kid helping him struggle through Shakespeare and how he had helped him with the trick of using the Latin words they knew for exorcisms to help him guess word meaning.

"I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven  
That often meet me here.  
I muse on joy that will not cease,  
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,  
Pure lilies of eternal peace,  
Whose odours haunt my dreams;  
And, stricken by an angel's hand,  
This mortal armour that I wear,  
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,  
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air."

He stopped again, taking a moment to wipe his eyes. It all sounded so peaceful, so perfect. It was nice to think of Sam letting go of his "mortal armor" and the burdens of the world to finally find peace.

"Not now Sammy," he said, looking over at Sam in the bed, the yellow of his skin suddenly standing out for him as tiny beads of sweat stood out on Sam's brow. He got to the last stanza and read it with the same enthusiasm and expression he did from all those years before when he'd preformed "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening."

"O just and faithful knight of God!  
Ride on! the prize is near."  
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;  
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,  
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,  
Until I find the holy Grail."

The Holy Grail. The Holy Grail for Sam was finishing God's trials and locking up hell for good and he knew Sam wouldn't give up without a fight.

ooooo

Dean continued reading the poem for Sam until his own voice went hoarse. He continued as nurses came and went from the room. He kept up his recitations even when the doctor stopped him to tell him that Sam's kidneys were now in failure too. He even kept up the reading when a dialysis machine was rolled in and he couldn't help but see his brother's blood being cycled through it to "cleanse" it. He knew though that his brother didn't need cleansing at all.

He lost track of all sense of time. He knew it had been days since the Wendigo hunt gone wrong, but he barely registered the sun rising and setting behind him in the window of the hospital room. He had fallen into a light doze, his shoulder stiff and painful from his own injuries. His fingers cramped from holding the now wrinkled papers in front of him. He got up and glanced at the array of machinery surrounding Sam. His vision blurred slightly from sleep, he glanced at the numbers hoping they meant some kind of improvement. He attempted a painful stretch and then he approached Sam's bed. His skin still had the same sallow pallor. Sam's arms were bruised from forearm to his wrist due to all the IV leads coming from him. His face was puffy and swollen from all the medication and a part of him wished he could pretend this wasn't Sam at all, that Sam was off like Sir Galahad on a quest. However, the tousled hair, although pasted to his forehead with sweat reminded him that this was his Sammy, the one who hadn't looked the same since taking on this seemingly insurmountable task. How he wished he could get one sign that he was still in there.

He looked at the numbers on the machines by Sam's bed again and saw the number for heart rate. He could have sworn when he glanced earlier that it was higher. Suddenly he registered that the beeps of Sam's heart monitor were getting further apart.

"Sammy," he said, quietly fearing the worst. Then just as he suspected all hell broke loose. The alarms in Sam's room started to sound and he heard the words "Code Blue" being blurted out of an intercom with Sam's room number attached to it. He was shuffled aside as a horde of people flooded Sam's room.

He winced as compressions were started on Sam's already battered chest. Was Sam's heart failing him now too? He was sure of it as he was hustled out the door.

He stood stone still just outside where he was practically placed by the nurse. He could still hear what was going on inside, cries for epinephrine, and the words charging to 350. He knew they were shocking Sam back to life. He envisioned his brother flopping helplessly on the bed and couldn't imagine his wounded body could endure much more. People moved in a blur around him but he didn't notice their presence even though they might have been talking to him. He couldn't be sure. He cocked his ears waiting for the sound he longed to hear, the steady beep from the machine telling him Sam was alive instead of the loud whine that penetrated his eardrums. He watched the clock tick by, 2 minutes, then 4 minutes, and then his own heart started to pound painfully in his ears. It was too long, too late. Then after 8 minutes, he heard it, a beeping and the doctor say, "he's back."

He felt himself falling but was caught by an orderly in the hall.

A chair was brought over and he sat in it, placing his head between his knees because he thought he was going to pass out.

Just then Sam's doctor came out of his room. She rushed over with a look of concern for him.

"Dean, can you hear me?" She asked. "Are you okay?"

Dean grunted in response. She was worried about him?

"How's Sam?" He asked instantly.

"Well I can tell you're fine now," she said, lightheartedly.

"I know you got him back, but how is he?"

She got quiet again and Dean felt his emotions that had just flipped from desperation, despair, to hope transforming into anger.

"Just tell me!" He said, lifting his head.

"Dean, Sam's heart stopped beating for 8 minutes. I really thought we weren't going to get him back."

"But he came back," Dean stated simply.

"Yes, he did. I think I know where he gets that tenacity from."

Dean smiled just ever so slightly.

"Sam is a fighter," she continued. "I wish I could tell you now he's going to be okay but I can't. His organs still have not responded to treatment and his heart is getting weaker."

"You don't know my brother," Dean declared. The last thing Sam had was a weak heart. He had a heart sometimes that was too big for his own good which was why he was in that bed in the first place. His heart still believed there was hope even in the darkest times, and it ached for everyone they couldn't save, and would keep beating until he had done everything he could to save as many people as possible.

He left the doctor standing there and went back to Sam. The nurses had settled him back in the bed, readjusted the ventilator. Dean went over and fixed the blanket, brushing a stray strand out of Sam's face. Then he went back to his chair and continued reading the poem.

Eventually the words became his own and almost unconsciously he was no longer reading a poem about Sir Galahad but about Sir Sam, the bravest, purest knight of them all:

"His good blade carves the evil ones,  
the aim of his gun is sure,  
His strength is as the strength of tons,  
Because his heart is pure"

"How sweet are looks that Sam receives  
from ladies that like what they see!  
For them he battles till the end,  
To save them from horrors so they can be free:  
But all his heart is drawn above,  
His knees are bowed from burdens he carries all the time:  
And he can never know true love,  
He has too many mountains he must climb."

"He wishes to breathe the airs of heaven  
And meet the ones that he lost there.  
But all his battles will not cease,  
For he's surrounded by darkness and evil schemes,  
Still he has hope that he and his brother can find peace,  
These thoughts and wishes haunt his dreams;  
Yet they seem to slip from his hand,  
He keeps the faith that this mortal armor that he wears,  
That is crushed by the weight of the world,  
Will be gone and instead he'll feel as light as air."

"Out of the darkness he hears a voice, O just and faithful knight of God!  
Keep going! The prize is near.  
So he continues down the darkened road for miles;  
By ganking hellhound, saving a soul, and finding a cure,  
He's armed with his brother here,  
Until he finishes God's trials."

Dean knew he might not be Tennyson but he was speaking from his heart and he believed Sam could hear him.

ooooo

By day seven, a week since Sam had been admitted, Dean was feeling powerless. He could recite his poem for Sam by memory as if it was a prayer, a ballad, an anthem to his dying brother. The doctors told him that Sam still wasn't showing signs of improvement and if he didn't rebound soon, he'd have irreversible organ damage.

"Come on Sam. I need you to come out of this," Dean began walking over to his brother's bedside. "I just got through Tennyson for you and even made it my own." He looked down at his brother. Sam was still mottled by the strange bruising on his face, swollen and feverish. The ventilator was still doing the breathing for him, the dialysis machine still humming nearby.

"You know I'm not that great at these motivational speeches," Dean continued. "Usually you're the one who gets me through these things, tells me that it will get better. You're going to lead me to the light right?" Dean finished.

Sam always had the courage that kept him going when things looked bleak, even when they were younger and it was as simple as reciting that Robert Frost poem. Dean had been so willing to not memorize the poem at all, to just take the failure, or even just say the poem as is and take the lowest possible grade. However, Sam had practiced with him, taught him the true emotion of it, how it was about feeling helpless but in the end deciding that it was still worth it. This was how he had won for best reading in the class and become a finalist. Sam had been no more than 12 at the time but he reminded Dean that their whole lives were all about acting and playing a certain role and he had confidence Dean could perform the poem. They hadn't been in town for the finals so Dean didn't know if he would have won or not but Sam was positive. Sam had taught him so much about life just by being his little brother: responsibility, faith, trust, and true love.

Dean remembered what Sam had said after finding out the last trial was to cure a demon. He said they were heading to the end. However, Dean refused to believe this was the end for his brother. He knew curing a demon would not be easy but they'd figure it out and he had the same utmost confidence in Sam that his brother had in him that he'd get the job done. He also knew Sam still had so much to teach him but he needed him to be his beacon. He needed to see the light in his eyes.

ooooo

Three days later, Dean knew that Sam had heard him. The latest bloodwork revealed that Sam's organs were improving. His fever had also come down considerably. He no longer required dialysis and his color was better. It wasn't the rosy glow of health but the yellow skin was more a tinge than a darker hue. He also saw movement from Sam. He moved his fingers and at times looked like he wanted to open his eyes. Finally the doctor agreed it was time to wean him off the ventilator.

When it was time for the tube to come out, Dean waited outside the door, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through his body. When the doctor told him it was a success, he was elated. Of course the doctor told him they were "cautiously optimistic with Sam's progress" but he knew better. Sam was winning the battle, just like he always did. He walked back in the room relieved to see so much of the machinery gone. Sam still had an IV fixed in his hand and a nasal cannula under his nose but he looked more like himself than he had in the last ten days.

"Sam?" Dean said, reaching out his own hand to place on Sam's arm. Sam had looked so fragile before, he scarcely got too close for fear of bruising him further.

Two days later, finally with arduous effort, Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean confusedly. Dean instantly paged the doctor.

"Wha..What happened?" Sam rasped out, haltingly.

Dean tried not to get too alarmed. Sam had been out of it for several days and he knew he might not remember what had occurred.

The doctor arrived quickly and assessed Sam while Dean waited outside the door.

"I guess you were right," she said, as she walked out of Sam's room.

"About what?"

"That your brother would pull through. I can tell you never doubted it for a second."

"I didn't. Sam doesn't have a weak heart. Any weaknesses he has just make him stronger."

"I think you both make each other stronger," she replied.

Dean smiled knowingly.

ooooo

Even though Sam was getting better, the doctor explained that Sam would still need medication and follow up appointments to control his anemia. His organs had rallied but he was still very weak.

Sam was so weak that he couldn't even bring a cup to his own lips to drink. Dean placed a straw in the cup and carefully brought it up to Sam's lips.

"Do you remember what happened now?" Dean asked.

"Not too much," Sam admitted, after taking a sip of the cool water.

"Remember that time I joked about you being a tree. It's not funny anymore."

Sam gave him a bemused look as if it was just dawning on him now.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked. "The Wendigo attacked you."

"I'm fine. You're the one who was just at death's door."

"Dean, I'm sorry—"

"For not listening to me?" Dean asked. "It's okay. You did save my life. Although I'm thinking of getting childproof locks installed on the Impala"

"Very funny," Sam quipped.

ooooo

A few days later, Sam was feeling strong enough to get out of bed so Dean decided to take Sam out in to the fresh air to get a few moments away from the hospital.

Sam was still extremely weak and Dean had to hide the shock at just how thin Sam was. He carefully helped Sam into a wheelchair, mindful of all the bruising, making sure he affixed Sam's IV bags full of medication to the wheelchair pole.

Sam looked like he had just run a marathon by the time he was seated in the chair, panting with exertion.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"I'm fine," Sam said, through gritted teeth.

Dean ignored the blatant lie. He knew Sam was a long way from fine.

Dean wheeled Sam to small outdoor patient gathering and they shared some good natured jabs at each other when Sam turned serious.

"Dean, I'm afraid," he admitted suddenly. "About this last trial, about what's happening to me."

"Sam I know."

"You do? The whole time I never really wanted to admit it because I knew you'd feel guilty since you wanted to do the trials. I guess this just proves you were the right person for the job."

"Sam, stop that please," Dean began. "You are the right person and enough of that crap about needing to be pure. You are pure Sam. The fact that you almost died shows how pure you are. You heard Cas. He knew the trials make any person sick that starts them, even Metatron knew. The whole thing caused your body to get mixed up and attack itself. Not because your blood isn't pure, because you're human."

Sam sat quietly, his arms resting on the sides of the wheelchair as if he was soaking in what Dean said.

"I also want you to know that there is no doubt in my mind that you'll get the job done," Dean said, at last.

Sam smiled from ear to ear, finding relief in the fact that his brother trusted him, and Dean couldn't help but smile himself. It seemed like forever since he saw Sam smile.

"You want to hear something funny though?" Sam asked.

"What?"

"I had the strangest dreams. I feel like I dreamt I was Galahad for some reason."

Dean held in a smirk. He wasn't sure he'd share his attempts at writing poetry with Sam just yet. Just then a tiny ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and shined down on Sam's face. Sam looked just like Galahad in that moment and Dean knew he was lucky to have this "brave knight" for his little brother.

The End


End file.
